


An Epitaph for the Living

by ProfessorDrarry



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst and Tragedy, Duelling, First Love, Friendship/Love, Grief/Mourning, M/M, One Shot, Original Character Death(s), Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-16
Updated: 2016-11-16
Packaged: 2018-08-31 07:06:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8568922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProfessorDrarry/pseuds/ProfessorDrarry
Summary: Draco needs someone to remind him to live, even when the only one that matters is gone. Cue the saviour of all. Cue the one thing Draco is sure he doesn't need. A short story of hope after death. HPDM Pre-slash, no MAJOR character death.





	

**Author's Note:**

> We all have moments of tragedy that define us, shape us. Change who we are. It may not be death. It may not be a person. Yet, we all have them. It is who we hold onto in these moments that matters; they teach us how to continue. How to go on. This story is about that. Is is short. It is contained. It will not have an epilogue or a continuation. An epitaph is a phrase or statement written in memory of a person who has died. This is just that. A phrase. A statement.
> 
> Still, I hope you enjoy it for its briefness. I hope it reminds you how to be intrepid in a moment when you need to be reminded.
> 
> Draco and Harry aren't mine. Aleksander is. Whitman isn't mine either, but he is definitely the most beautiful parts of all of us.

 

"Excuse me, Sir…wait, Mr. Malfoy?"

"Mmfph."

"It's last call, Mr. Malfoy," the rough voice said carefully. "You're going to have to, er, take your head off my bar shortly."

"Mfaseepmyuhrymg."

"I'm sorry?"

Draco lifted his head off his arms a fraction of an inch to glare as he said, "I said, I'd like to see you make me."

"I've dealt with men drunker and significantly larger than you."

"Any of them a Slytherin being made to do something they didn't want to?"

"Rough night?"

"I don't want to do this. I don't need to…talk."

"Try me. It might help."

Draco looked up and saw the earnest face in front of him, and broke down. He really did need to talk to someone. The barman looked amused, obviously sensing victory, and picked up an-honest-to-goodness white bar rag.

"If you say, 'what's troublin' ya', I will punch you."

"Wouldn't dare."

"We were happy. I need you to know that first," he told the bar man. "We were actually happy."

"Everyone always thinks they're happy."

"No. But we really were."

"Okay," the man sighed. "Go on."

So he did.

-OoOoOoOoO-

He and Aleksander. They had been together an entire year. It felt like ten. He was happy. He was sappy. Giddy all the time. It was disgusting, even to him, but he couldn't seem to help it. He would look at Aleks and _melt_. Their whole relationship was like a frigging Christmas carol. Even their friends had started commenting; about the glances, about the inability for them to be in the same room without being unconsciously connected to each other. A hand, a toe touching, the fabric of a coat near enough to smell. A finger trailed over an arm, a thigh edging just slightly closer. He knew, he was embarrassed, and yet he couldn't do anything about it. He tried to keep the verbal fussiness to a minimum, as a way to appease the cold-hearted-core he had always been made to believe existed inside of him. Still.

Happy. Sappy. Giddy.

One day, they were wandering the pier at Brighton, and he had made some passing comment about the day being completely perfect. Aleksander had looked at him for a moment, moved his arm out of Draco's hand and swung them around into a full embrace.

"It's so…tacky, though, " he'd said, nose wrinkling. "I guess, with children, it would be more appealing."

"Nothing is more appealing with children," Draco had muttered before being able to stop himself.

He instantly regretted it. Despite the fact that they had been serious for months, had discussed futures all the time, Draco had artfully avoided the conversation about off-spring. Because how could he tell him? Tell this man he loved, this man who _loved_ the idea of having kids, that he didn't want children. That the very thought gripped his heart with cold, icy death-vice-like-grip? That he might turn into his father if he had kids, and that he would kill himself before letting that happen? So instead of having that conversation now, Draco stood, cheeks colouring quickly, with his mouth hanging open stupidly.

But Aleks only paused for a second before looking down at Draco and shaking his head.

"Oh God," he had muttered into Draco's hair. "I'm dating the hopeless sap with daddy issues. I've never done that before."

So yes, happy had been the word to describe it. At the time, he hadn't thought that the sentence 'and that's when everything fell apart' would have been something he could ever use to describe his life. It felt like he was meant to be with this man forever.

In retrospect, maybe no one, and _especially_ not him, had deserved that much happiness.

When Aleksander had appeared at his door that day, he hadn't been prepared. He had answered the knock with a grin on his face, his hair un-moussed and hanging in his face. It was hot, and he was in only his pants, trying to decide what colour to re-do the lounge. There were paint chips all over the floor.

It was 12 June. A Tuesday of no importance. Well, not then, anyway. The 12th of June was probably going to mean something to him for the rest of his life now.

"Thank GOD you are here," he had cried, full of drama, a hand to his forehead in an imagined swoon. He pulled him into the front room, stepping around the samples of hard wood stacked in the corner. "I'm stuck between _Tempest_ and _Barren Plain_."

"Draco.…"

"I know you don't agree, but I'm _not_ being dramatic. The lounge ties the whole house together-"

"Draco."

This is when he had looked up. When he had seen the tear tracts, when he saw the ashen pallor, and the look of shock.

"What's wrong?"

Aleksander sat him down. Explained. Some words stuck. Some didn't. Some were made of more electric stuff, and they immediately rewired Draco's brain; Words like _tumour, brain,_ and _inoperable._ What he missed, however, was the what he was supposed to _do._

"Okay, we can do this," he remembered insisting, leaping up to pace around. To solve. "We'll find different healers…dark arts, if need be. Ex-unspeakables. I have money. It's not like I don't have-"

"Draco. Stop. Did you hear me?" Aleks had stopped him mid stride, hands on his face. "I'm just sick. Normal, everyday, human sick. Even wizards can just get sick. You don't need to do anything, or pay anyone. I've had…several opinions. I didn't want to say anything until I knew for sure, because I knew this would happen. You're a fixer."

He remembers nodding, not agreeing so much as trying to stay conscious.

"All I need is for you to be here as long as you can be," Aleksander had continued. "And then move on. And for the love of god, put some colour in this lounge. _Merlin_ , Draco, these are all just different names for grey!" 

   -OoOoOoOoO-

They had six more good months.

Draco painted the lounge white with a bright red accent wall. They travelled. They met Aleksander's family in Krakow, where Draco was fussed over by his mother in rapid-fire Polish, even while she cried and muttered, ' _Saša, oh my Saša'_ while petting Aleks' head.

They crossed as much off of his bucket list as they could, meaning Draco ended up eating things he'd never have eaten in places he'd never have been. He spent what he could wherever possible, trying to maintain as much of Aleksander's money as possible so it would end up back with his family. The world continued to spin, the word death was conveniently brushed over, and Draco would go for hours at a time without remembering why all of this fun and adventure was necessary. At night, though, he'd wake in a panic, convinced Aleksander wasn't breathing, and then would sit crying silently for twenty minutes when discovered he was.

Six good months. They were very good. But when they went bad, they exploded. The day Draco knew that time was up, he found Aleks in the kitchen, holding a pan of water over a potted plant, muttering that the kettle was broken. It would have been hilarious in other situations.

It was not in this one.

They moved into the hospital. Draco spent all the time he could there, though in his lucid moments, Aleksander would beg him to leave now, to not remember him this way. Draco agreed, but he could not find a way to stop showing up.

So he was there when Aleksander lost control of his bladder. When his speech got more and more erratic and less comprehensible. When his kind and mild-mannered partner got suddenly enraged for no reason, and threw a tray at a nurse.

And finally, when he lost consciousness all together and had to be connected to machines with loud, pulsing beeps that he would have hated. Draco was there, hearing in his mind the voice of a man that was gone, saying, "I love you because you are so silent. Why does the world insist on being so _loud_ about everything?"

He unhooked the machines that night, and his love, his person, trickled into the night for the last time.

He did take time off, but the days at home started to get worse. They were empty and too quiet, and the unplanned hours pressed him into the earth even further than he was already being pressed. So, four months into his six months leave, he wandered into the basement of the Ministry and into his lab, and got back to work. It was slightly better. Not a lot, but slightly.

He met with many people who tried to tell him how sorry they were. How he should take time off. He smiled in the way that his face now formed a smile, more of a grimace pasted onto a plastic face than a smile. He thanked them and nodded, then he went back to work.

He took on more projects, stayed late every night, leaving well after the building stood largely empty. He slowly tried to put his life back together, and he knew he wasn't doing that well, but he might get there someday. He'd starting showering again. And eating, occasionally. He felt like these were humungous feats, mountains climbed, and he felt like he was winning.

Almost ten months into this marathon of climbing small mountains each day, he noticed that he had missed their anniversary. He had been at the cinema, trying to fill an evening with noise and darkness, and he had completely forgotten the day they had met. That vacation home in Greece, mixed up bookings, and a startling revelation that they were both magic.

Forgetfulness made Draco crash back down to the bottom of the deep pit, the pit that his friends were starting to argue he had no real right to. They never said anything outright, but he sensed the patience was disappearing from those who had started out understanding his grief. He had only been with Aleksander a year and a half, they muttered. Surely he must be getting ready to move on? Politeness dictated that one wait a certain amount of time, but still.

Draco wasn't sure when it would get better. The problem was that the one year had been spent almost entirely with the overlying hum of _I'm done_ resting over his head; _I'm done, this is it, and I never have to worry about this again._ He'd been wrong, evidently, but now he wasn't sure what to do next.

-OoOoOoOoO-

Somewhere in the midst of this second collapse, small gifts starting appearing on his desk, with cryptic notes attached. Books ( _helpful..try it._ ), or small toys ( _try to keep your hands busy)_. It was when a small, purple pygmy puff appeared on his desk ( _another living thing helps you remember to take care of yourself, too)_ that he had finally had enough. He was in his office 12 hours a day. He must know who was delivering things, he just hadn't been paying attention. When he did, he was dismayed.

One day, he saw the culprit from the small window of the lab, sneaking silently into the outer office.

"Potter. Stop. What are you doing? Why do you keep leaving things?"

The other man at least had the decency to look shocked at being caught, and then slightly ashamed.

"I just…look, Malfoy, it doesn't mean anything,"  Potter sighed. "I just…know grief, alright? I know death. Unfair death. I assume you've reached the stage where you feel like you're the only one who still cares? No one is in your corner? I just thought you should…you'll get through it. You can…never mind."

"What? Talk?," Draco scoffed, "To _you._ "

As usual, the threat, the challenge, emboldened Potter, who squared his shoulders. "Yeah,  actually. Right now. Come on. You spend too much time in this room. I, uh, challenge you to a duel."

"A what?"

"A duel," he repeated, standing a little taller in challenge. "I assume you remember how. You wouldn't dare let yourself get rusty at something."

And since Draco could think of no reason not to, he followed Potter to the hall, and just like that, acquired a standing event on Wednesday night, a hobby, and a dueling partner.

As much as he loathed to admit it, Potter was good. He supposed he had to be to survive in the field, but merlin, was he _good_. Fast, full of wordless spells, always ready with a counter. Draco had to put his full attention on his attack and defence, just to not get beaten every time. Which helped slow his mind down to a reasonable pace.

One day, during a breather in between duels, Potter had muttered, barely audible, "What do you miss the most?"

Draco had stared at a spot above his head, slightly agape for a few beats, before looking away. There had been hints that Potter had something planned. Random comments about how Draco was looking less terrified, random coffee dropped at the door of his office. He knew that Potter had some sort of Saviour complex, and assumed that this question was sudden and a part of the 'healing' Potter was trying to orchestrate. He was not going to cooperate. He practically choked on the words. He hadn't planned on responding. Until he heard himself say, largely against his will.

"It's stupid," he said, looking at the floor. 

"It always is."

"He used to…pull my hair, in his sleep. Just a small tuft. Not hard, " Draco smiled sadly, remembering. "I don't even think he knew he was doing it. It was like he was…checking I was there."

"It's hard, isn't it?" Potter said gently. "Not having someone beside you in bed anymore? It's like…you live your whole life up to that first relationship being perfectly fine sleeping alone, and then after…"

"You can never go back," Draco finished, feeling oddly peaceful all of a sudden.

"Nope."

Potter had dropped it then, and they'd gone back to the duel. But. The next post-duel water break, sitting on the edge of the stage, the question was worse.

"Do you think you'd have stayed with him forever?"

This time, Draco was ready for the awkward question. He answered right away.

"Yes. I'd like to think so."

"How do you know?"

"Dunno. Just did. Did you…do you…you're not with Ginny."

"No. Haven't been since the first year after the war."

"Not enough excitement in a mundane relationship after the heat of battle, hey? Not enough passion?"

"Not enough penis, actually," Potter glanced at Draco sidelong. "Sorry. That was crass. You didn't read about it, though? Well, that was that. But since? Dunno. Never seem to want to be in it for the long haul. I try. I really do. But, we get into the middle of it, and suddenly, I'm done. So I leave. So, that's my question; how did you know?"

Draco thought for a second this time.

"You know, honestly, maybe you don't," he said, looking at the pain on Potter's face. It hadn't been there a minute ago. It was interesting. "You just have a desire to not _not_ be together, and in the moment where you are feeling it, and you're happy, it's enough. I do remember thinking, 'thank God, no more first dates'. So maybe that's the moment."

They continued this way for weeks. Potter teasing out small pieces of information from Draco each week, largely against his will. Until the inevitable began to happen; Draco felt lighter. Less like someone was kneeling on his chest. When he noticed, he started to dive again, spiral again. He was angry at himself for letting his mind be distracted. _Again_. This time, however, Potter was there.

"What's wrong? You seem…worse."

"I'm fine'" he snapped. 

"Liar," Potter snapped back.

"I realized...I felt better last week."

"You are allowed to, you know. He would want you to. He would forgive you."

"No, he wouldn't. You don't know that."

"I do, actually," Potter interrupted, "Because if he loved you, he'd want you to go on. It doesn't mean you're forgetting him…you _are_ allowed to heal. And still grieve. And love him. That's all that happens. It doesn't go away just because you forget to be sad for a minute. You are allowed to keep living."

And just like that, Draco was bawling, sobbing in fact. Crying for the first time since those midnight silent tears before Aleksander had died. There was nothing silent about these, though. He was allowing eight months of emotion to escape. Potter sat beside him where he had crumpled onto the dueling platform and semi-awkwardly patted his shoulder, clearly trying to decide if he needed to do more. Unknowingly, Draco had been waiting for exactly what Potter had just given him.

_Permission_ _._

-OooOoOoOoooO-

"I suppose you think you know what's coming next," Draco interrupted himself.

"I have my suspicions," the bar man said. He lifted his own glass to his mouth, a pint poured somewhere around the second or third post-close pint he had poured for Draco.

"But you don't know our history."

"Maybe not, but I know people. History doesn't matter as much as people want to believe it does. Do you like him?"

"NO. No, frig. I don't…I don't know what I-"

"Okay, fine, you aren't ready for that. Sorry. But-"

"I find him…intriguing."

"So why are you still here?"

"What, you want me to go there now and try to get into his pants? This man who was just trying to stop me from destroying myself over my dead boyfriend?"

"Yes," the barman answered, matching Draco's bluntness with bluntness. His frankness was likely why Draco was still here. "Or you could start with just words. They tend to help in these kinds of situations. You know, when drunken brooding on a barstool fails."

"I'm not brooding," Draco insisted. "Besides. We've always been pretty bad at words."

"So try something else."

* * *

_I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love,  
_ _If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles._

 _You will hardly know who I am or what I mean,_  
_But I shall be good health to you nevertheless,  
_ _And filter and fibre your blood._

 _Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged,_  
_Missing me one place search another,  
_ _I stop somewhere waiting for you._

 

 _-Song of Myself,_ WaltWhitman


End file.
